


Pain in Retrograde

by HVoxlen (Groinboiler)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Groinboiler/pseuds/HVoxlen
Summary: When Shiro exits a meeting suddenly, Keith ensures the fearless, icy Admiral is okay... spoiler alert, he's not and SHIRO'S PTSD SHOULD HAVE BEEN EXPLORED MORE DAMN IT.
Relationships: Keith & Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Pain in Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I'm Hale. Don't post fic often but may start as a sort of therapeutic self-soothing tactic. I myself suffer from PTSD, so I figure who better to write it than someone who actively deals with the issues that I imagine Shiro does? This may turn into a series and tbh I don't even care if anyone reads it? This is for ME and the intended audience has already BEEN REACHED. I know the Sheith isn't strong in THIS PARTICULAR FIC but OH BABY do I ship it so hard.
> 
> Twt acct is @HVoxlen come scream about Sheith with me.
> 
> Enjoy a good, sweet read.

PTSD was such an odd, abrasive little thing that could easily swallow Shiro whole, if he wasn’t careful. Try as he might, though, it would happen over and over. Even post-war, when he had come back Earth-side. People thought he retired from space flights because he had already accomplished everything he needed to in his life, far earlier than intended.

That was a false ideology that too many people subscribed to--including the man that he had initially married for the hell of it.

Shiro, of course, didn’t want to shake peoples’ confidence in him. It was important to him to continue to look the part of the fierce Admiral who still worked on-base--just didn’t travel to space. Everyone looked up to him, they wanted to be more like him.

Shiro wished he didn’t feel like a shell of a man when he looked up at the night sky sometimes.

It would come out of nowhere, the triggers and the feelings of swallowing nails that quickly infected every inch of his lungs. He’d be sitting in the middle of a meeting, paying rapt attention to the speaker, only to suddenly notice that a Galra attendee was one of the ones that he recognized from somewhere.

He hated that feeling, because it always got him to scratch the wall in his mind that protected him. Shiro just… couldn’t quite place different people sometimes, and he stubbornly refused to let it go.

It wasn’t until the Galra soldier noticed Shiro was staring that he finally glanced back, and Shiro was hit with the overwhelming feeling of having his oxygen physically removed in a vacuum of space. Shiro recognized him, and he recognized Shiro.

For a split second, he was back in the arena, getting the shit kicked out of him by that day’s flavor of shit kicker--a random Galra soldier that relished every gash he left on Shiro’s fatigued body.

It was the same guy, the same flavor of the week, except he was now in Shiro’s board room discussing... humanitarian efforts to a solar system. It had become embargoed over a relatively hostile band of galra outliers, and he remembered with difficulty that he was supposed to be lending his opinion at some interval.

Shiro forcefully averted his eyes from the galra’s gaze, and suddenly realized that everyone was staring at  _ him _ , because apparently it was, in fact, his turn to lend his brain to the operation.

He couldn’t hear anything but his own pounding pulse in his ear, his blood pressure shooting skyward as the death knells of his initial panic attack blossomed into a full-blown PTSD episode. Shiro wasn’t wholly surprised by this development, but it had never been so publicly occurring before.

He couldn’t let this happen here, not right now, not in front of all these people.

Shiro fled the room, feeling the icy shards of anxiety and lack of oxygen hitting his body. He didn’t even realize he was hyperventilating as his boots pounded a staccato rhythm on the laminate flooring below his feet. He didn’t even know where he was going at this point, he simply knew he was fleeing. What he was fleeing was multi-year abuse and trauma that formed layer upon layer of emotional suffering and turmoil. Why it continued to haunt Shiro’s every waking moment was beyond him, but he knew in this moment that fresh air would help--somehow.

He burst through a set of doors that led to the Garrison rooftop, not bothering to check if anyone followed. That was the last thing on his mind at that moment.

He stopped only when he had reached a specific spot on the rooftop of the tallest building--the edge. He sat down just behind the ledge that acted as a barrier to funnel rainwater into pipes at each of the four corners of the building. They led down to the underbelly of the Garrison, to a water treatment system that made it drinkable.

Shiro’s brain tracked the piping layout in his head, down and down it went, until he was but a drop of water within that treatment system. He wanted to be a droplet in that moment, not a human being rife with suffering. He wanted to exist as some unthinking, unfeeling element of nature.

Shiro wanted to lay down and give up, and just be one with the planet. He didn’t want to be a cog in the universal wheel of fortune.

He felt as though he weren’t inhabiting his body, but floating just above, watching in an extremely impersonal way as planet Earth continued spinning, as the universe continued. For a blessed moment, he didn’t exist.

Then a can of something cold pressed against the exposed back of his neck, making him jump. Shiro slammed back into his body all in one surprising motion.

He glanced backwards at the offending object, only to find a hand sporting a fingerless glove attached to the can of iced coffee from a nearby vending machine. The hand itself was attached to a dark outfit that was fitting of a certain Blade of Marmora leadership figure.

Shiro was grateful to see Keith in this moment.

The man smiled lopsidedly at Shiro and plopped down beside him--decorum be damned. In that moment, it was reminiscent of the old days, where Shiro was Keith’s mentor. They spent a lot of time in this exact spot, watching the Garrison’s various activities.

It was nice to remember that they were still the same they always had been, in some ways. Ever evolving, but at the end of the day able to sit in mutual silence and talk about the hard stuff.

“You were staring awfully hard at the drains… were you wishing to become a raindrop?” Keith inquired, keeping judgement out of his tone.

Shiro wasn’t sure how his voice would sound when he finally spoke, but he trusted Keith to not make fun of him for whatever came out. “Raindrops have it easy. Wouldn’t you envy them too?” He rasped out, popping the tab on the can of cold beverage.

Keith chuckled low and deep, popping the tab of his own milk tea. “I don’t always find myself envying those as much as I find myself envying a ray of sunshine.” He stated. “It’s an interesting thought sometimes, but easy to allow yourself to get lost in.”

Shiro sighed softly, unbidden thoughts about how nice it would be just... _ get lost,  _ invading his brain.

“You can’t, y’know. You have responsibilities.” Keith countered, which meant Shiro may not have actively worked hard enough to not vocalize the pitiful thought.

“Yeah.. responsibility is a good way to avoid feelings.” Shiro mused as he shifted uncomfortably, attempting to estimate just how long he’d been sitting in the same spot for...by gauging how sore his muscles and joints were. The answer was, unfortunately, a while.

Keith nodded, and allowed a comfortable silence to proliferate. Shiro was thankful for that blanket of amiable quiet, where they just watched the Garrison members complete tasks…

It wasn’t until it was a bit later that Keith finally sighed, noticing he was nearly to the last dregs of his milk tea. “Do you wanna talk about what happened,” he offered softly, “or would you rather drink about it?”

Drinking about it sounded nice, if Shiro was honest with himself, but there was also that looming dread that he might go too far. Talking about it, though, was impossible to verbalize. How did he talk around the spiny lump in his throat that made itself apparently anytime he attempted to speak about the subject? How did he tell Keith that he was so weak that nightmares kept sleep at bay at night?

“I’m… not ready to discuss it.” Shiro responded after a bit, to which his companion nodded. “I also… am not good with drinking these days.” It was painful to admit that it was becoming increasingly difficult to forget when he imbibed a few drinks.

He nodded once more, but slower, with an expression of thoughtfulness on his face. “Then let’s go racing… or is that unacceptable behavior from the Admiral of the Galaxy Garrison these days?” Keith inquired smugly.

That spiked some feelings of friendly competitiveness in Shiro. “I dunno, y’know, they seem to think I might break a bone doing that… can’t go losing me anytime soon, I’m basically the backbone of society here.”

Keith laughed heartily at that idea, head thrown back as the sound echoed. “You? The backbone of society? I’m sorry, but  _ what? _ ” Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he absolutely lost it.

Shiro found himself chuckling as well, spurred on by the ridiculous overreaction to his statement. “What, you don’t think I do anything but pencil push these days?” He pretended to frown.

“You, pencil pushing. That’d be the day, but also, I think they’d be okay without you… for an hour, at least.” Keith wiped tears from his eyes, trying to reign in his giggle fit. “If you left any longer, though, James or Lance might elbow their way to the top, and you’d have some Lord of the Flies governing happening.”

“See? Backbone of society.” Shiro stated proudly. “Prove me wrong.”

Keith shook his head, standing up and brushing his pants clean of desert dust. “Sure… let’s see if you can beat me in a race.” He smirked once more, holding out his hand to Shiro in a pre-race peace offering.

“You’re on,” he stated, taking his hand and hoisting himself up “winner buys dinner.”

“Hm, maybe.” Keith answered non-committedly as he headed for the hanger, where their old hoverbikes sat aging on display for others to see.

Shiro had missed Keith’s company.

“Good to have you back.” He stated quietly behind Keith, not expecting to be heard.

“Good to be back.” Keith responded without missing so much as a beat.


End file.
